Hunters v Immortals
by GremlinGirl
Summary: The Rail Tracer strikes again, gaining the attention of Sam and Dean. The two race to New York to stop the monster responsible for the grisly murders. Luck and Claire try to keep their immortality under wraps as the hunters begin to investigate them. However, when the secret is exposed, Sam and Dean realize they might have been better off not knowing.
1. Monster Makes Headlines

**New story! So, I don't know why there isn't more Supernatural/Baccano crossovers. There's just so much material to work with from both shows. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands and write some. Now, I have this one and another still in the planning stages. I hope you like this story, it's one of the more interesting ideas I've had lately. But first, I just wanna clear some things up. Okay.**

 **All of the Baccano in this story is based off the anime. I've also taken a few liberties and altered a bit of canon to fit my story, for example, giving Claire/Vino/Felix immortality. I'll update on this as it comes up, but it shouldn't be anything too major.**

 **For Supernatural, chronologically, this takes place pre-season four. Before angels and the apocalypse or even Dean going to hell. So, there's really not going to be any spoilers in this one. Also, no Castiel, so sorry about that.**

 **This chapter may or may not make sense to you, but all will be explained in due time. There's a lot of loose ends and confusing bits, but I promise, they are there for a reason.**

 **Finally, disclaimer. I don't own Baccano or Supernatural and never will. Enjoy!**

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He dug his fingernails into the carpet in front of him, dragging himself forward a few painstaking inches. His legs screamed out in pain, both snapped in to and barely still attached to the rest of his body. As he slowly moved forward, he left a streak of bright red across the forest green carpet. Blood ran down from the wound on his forehead, into his eyes and blinding him. He quickly wiped the red away from his vision before continuing his slow but desperate trek to what he hoped was safety.

Suddenly, the train lurched to the side, hitting a turn going much too fast and almost shooting off the rails. This sent the man's body flying against the wall, his body twisting into horribly impossible shapes. The wheels screeched against the metal rails, masking the man's pained screams. Thrown back flat again, he let out a pained groan, feeling the ribs on his right side were broken. He cursed to himself, then reached out again, continuing to drag himself.

Unbeknownst to the man, a shadowy figure had appeared behind him. With glowing red eyes, it watched as the man slowly crawled toward freedom, hoping desperately that the creature wouldn't find him again. His fingers pulled at the carpeted floors, muscles straining with the effort. His breaths were becoming ragged, pain spreading through him.

Footsteps echoed behind him, the dark creature slowly making its way towards the man. As it went, blood dripped from it, staining the carpet. In fact, the creature seemed to be almost made of blood as covered as it was. Its eyes glinted with a murderous light as it watched the man struggle on. There was mischief in the red orbs, the monster enjoying every moment that his prey struggled. It could sense the fear that emanated from him. It relished in the emotion, loving the very scent that fear put into the air when there was a good kill.

Feeling the eyes boring into his back, the man slowly turned his head to look at the devilish figure. He felt a scream rip from his throat as he turned forward again, clawing desperately at the green threads of the carpet. His nails ripped into it, leaving marks through it. A chuckle was heard behind him as the bloody creature caught up to him, reaching out to grab the back of his shirt. It pulled him back, then threw him against the wall.

"Please don't do this," the man begged, unashamedly breaking into tears. "Haven't you hurt enough people? Everyone on this train is dead, goddammit! Why do you have to kill me, too?" He struggled as the monster held him up by his shirt. His legs dangled limply, blood from the several wounds on his body dripping down the wall behind him.

It didn't give a response, instead reaching out, grabbing its victim around the throat. With near superhuman strength, it crushed the man's larynx. Squeezing a little tighter, the man's eyes bulged from his sockets as he let out his last pained gasp. Blood burst from his eyes as they burst, spraying the monster and the wall behind it with blood. A dark chuckle erupted from its chest as it dropped the man to the ground then quickly walked away from the body.

A few steps away, it seemed to dematerialize out the window of the train, leaving the body and countless more aboard. The conductors, passengers, and crew were all dead, killed in gruesome displays of violence, skin ripped away, bones broken. The inside of the train was painted in varying degrees of red and the murderer, the monster, was nowhere to be found.

* * *

The diner bustled with a lively chatter, a cast of interesting characters filling the fairly small room. Three bikers sat at the bar, sipping on milkshakes and laughing rambunctiously at their own inside jokes, a young woman sat talking on the phone, and a busy waitress buzzed about. In the back corner, two men sat, widely different in appearance and actions. One was viciously devouring a hamburger, obviously savoring every bite. The other was scrolling through articles on his laptop, a half-eaten salad beside him.

"This is…pretty awful, Dean," he said, looking over the top of the screen at his companion. "There's at least forty people dead, all killed in horrifying ways. And it wasn't in the accident, either. It happened before the train derailed."

"Wait, go back for a second," Dean said, putting down his burger and wiping his hands. "The train just randomly derailed a couple of miles outside of New York?"

"Well… Not randomly. According to the experts, it probably was because the conductors were all killed so they could control the speed of the train. It hit a sharp turn and wasn't able to stay on the tracks."

"Huh," he said, frowning. "So, what do they think did all that killing, then?"

"Well, that's the thing. No one knows. I mean, the way these people were torn apart was apparently so gruesome that it couldn't have been human. A human wouldn't have been strong enough to do it. But it couldn't be an animal either, and there was nothing else on the train when they found the wreckage. So, it's a complete mystery. They're sending the bodies into New York City to be examined there. This could be something big, Dean. I think we need to go in and check it out."

"Alright, then let's do it." Dean said, picking up his burger again. "After I finish eating." He took a bit out of the decently sized burger, then grinned at his brother. "What's the matter, Sammy, you're giving me that look again."

"I just don't understand you're eating habits is all…" Sam looked down, shutting his lap top and picking up his fork to finish his salad. "You know, even with everywhere we have gone, I don't think we've ever gone to a big city like New York."

"Well, I'd say that's because most of the things we've hunted stick to smaller towns, out of the way places, secluded areas. It's harder to spot them that way. But we have gone to Chicago, if you remember that."

"Yeah…feels like a long ass time ago though." Sam dropped his fork again, suddenly losing his appetite. "Something about this is bugging me, though. I'm really worried about what we're going to find. I mean, this is sure to be pretty high profile, you know, bring in a bunch of media. Maybe in some real Feds. We don't generally take on anything like this, but I really feel like something horrible happened on that train and unless we stop it…"

"It's probably going to happen again," Dean finished his sentence, dropping his burger. "Alright, so it's about a four hour drive up to New York. If we start now we can be up by tonight, check into some motel and start researching. There might be something like this that happened before. Something this ugly doesn't just randomly show up, it's got to have some history or lore about it, somewhere. Then, tomorrow we can get into that morgue and see what the hell those bodies look like. Maybe we'll be able to tell what tore into them."

Sam nodded, picking up his laptop and shoving it into his computer bag. He dropped a couple of bills onto the table and the two stood to leave. The upbeat diner atmosphere rolled off both men like a sheet as they stepped into the parking lot. Dean walked over to his sleek, black car, a 1967 Chevy Impala. He ran his hand along the top before opening the door and slipping into the driver's seat. Sam sat in the seat beside him, setting the laptop down at his feet.

The car backed up, then quickly drove from the parking lot. Dean chose to take the back highways instead of the Interstate. As they drove down the road, trees lining both sides of the highway, he couldn't help but think on what Sam had said about the case. If it was true that something this gnarly was preying on a city like New York, or even anywhere in the area, there could be massive death tolls. They had to find and gank the son of a bitch before it could hurt more people.

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A pair of golden eyes bore into the man who sat in front of a desk. He refused to look into those eyes, which were almost hypnotic. He broke out into a nervous sweat, beads of moisture forming on his forehead. His breath hitched in his throat when footsteps echoed behind him. He flinched when a tall, imposing man came to occupy the seat next to him.

"What do you think?" he asked, deep voice making the already squirrely man shake. "He our guy, Luck?"

"I don't know, Berga," the golden eyed man replied. "He seems too…antsy to be the one. The man we're looking for had to have a nice set of balls on him to think he could steal from the Gandor family. Or very stupid…" Luck stood, slamming a file down in front of the man. "According to our new accountant, you've been siphoning money away from our accounts and putting it in an offshore account located in Guam of all places. Now, is it true?"

The man stared at the file for a money, gulping deeply. "I… Yes…" He nodded, looking up at the intimidating man. "It was just a few thousand a month, not enough that you would have even noticed. I just wanted some security in case things went south. Feds have been poking around a lot lately and, I wanted a safety net."

"You thinking of turning on the Family?"

"No, of course not," the man said, eyes widening. "I would never. I just wanted to ensure my own safety in a worst case scenario. It was stupid of me. I'm sorry Mr. Gandor."

"Apologies mean nothing to me," Luck said, voice taking on a menacing edge. His eyes had become hard, unfeeling. He walked around his desk and towards the door. "Berga. Make an example of him."

"With pleasure," the large man said, standing and hitting his palm with his fist.

Luck exited the room just as the sound of a fist hitting flesh resounded from within, and a man's horrible screaming filled the space. He shut the door, stifling some of the noise, and walked into the large room that served as the new Caraggioso. The building had belonged to the Gandor Family for many decades. In that time it had been a speakeasy, an office building, a restaurant, and now a nightclub for the super-rich. However, the club was empty except for one other figure, seeing that it was the middle of the day.

Luck walked over to the bar and sat beside the other person, a red head in a black trench coat that was swirling a glass of scotch in his hand. "Since when do you drink?" he asked, waving the bartender over.

"I don't. I don't need to," the red head said, setting the glass down. "But I thought, why not? I don't honestly get the appeal."

"Something I can get for you, Mr. Gandor?" the young bartender asked. He was a young man, an immigrant from Italy that the Gandors had taken under their wing.

"Uh, yes. Just a scotch, Leo." Luck turned to the other man again, watching him with cool, golden eyes. "I heard about the train situation, on the news. It seems the whole thing is stirring up quite a ruckus."

"Oh really? I figured they'd cover it up like they did last time. And the time before that."

"Claire…" Luck waited until the other looked at him, brown eyes almost shimmering with his amusement. "Claire, this is serious. And you know it, too. People are starting to poke around and I don't want the FBI on my doorstep tomorrow asking why my brother was the only survivor of a wicked train crash that left forty something people dead."

"Luck, if you had been there, you would have reacted the same way," Claire said. "I did what I had to do. Now get off my back, alright? Besides, I'll take care of any Feds that annoy you, I promise."

"I'm not worried about being annoyed. I'm worried about exposure. Now, are you sure you didn't leave a trace of you being there?"

"Of course not. I'm not an idiot and it's not the first time I've done this." Claire looked down at his drink for a minute before picking it up and chugging it. "You're getting real paranoid lately, Luck." He stood, walking to the door. "I'm going home, I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

"Yeah, see you." Luck sighed, picking up the drink the bartender had left for him and chugged it quickly. "Hey Leo, get me another of here, would you?" The man looked down at the wooden bar, worrying plaguing his features. There were many things about his family that should never be exposed and to him it seemed like every day they were getting closer to being found out. A sense of dread settled upon him as he grabbed his second drink, downed it, and immediately ordered another.

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 **Review, maybe?**


	2. Hunters Begin Investigating

**New chapter! I hope you enjoy it. I don't really have any notes for this one. If you have any questions, or something isn't clear, feel free to PM me about it! I don't own Baccano or Supernatural and never will.**

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The room was fairly silent, only the tapping of keys being pressed on Sam's laptop interrupting the otherwise tranquil atmosphere. He would search, fingers pounding the keyboard, eyes scanning the text on the bright screen. Article after article he poured over, engulfing whatever information he could find. Train accidents. Murders. Robberies. However, he found nothing that was like the massacre aboard the train. What information he could find on this specific incidence was very vague and useless. He hoped his brother was having more luck than he was.

It had been decided that the boys would split up, Sam staying in their seedy motel room to research any incidents that had happened prior to this one, and Dean going to the morgue in his FBI persona to look at the bodies and gather info on the victims. Sam's search seemed fruitless. His mouse pointer scrolled over the final link on the page, a connection to an old newspaper run out of New York, the Daily Days.

Sam clicked the link, not expecting much as his hopes of finding anything relevant had already been dashed, and cringed at the websites shoddy design. However, two words in the headline immediately caught his eyes: train massacre. The full headline read, "Train massacre aboard the Flying Pussyfoot leaves many dead or wounded". Licking his lips, hope now restored, he scrolled down to read the article to find only a blank page. Cursing under his breath, he realized the only text was a small fine print at the bottom that read, "If you would like to know about the events of 1931, please visit the Daily Days offices." There was also an address listed. Sam quickly jotted down the address on a piece of paper and tucked it into his pocket.

Just as he closed the window, the motel door opened and his brother walked in. Immediately loosening his tie, Dean let out a huff, his haggard expression telling Sam that it was worse than they had feared. The elder brother collapsed one of the beds and gave Sam a brooding look. "You know, in my years doing this job, I've seen some serious shit but…" He trailed off, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "But that was just terrible. Those bodies, they were torn apart. Skin ripped off in huge chunks. I've never seen anything like that. Whatever did this…well I have no idea what could have possibly done it."

Sam cleared his throat, unused to seeing his brother shook up like that. "Did you get any info that could help us figure it out?"

"The thing is…they're still working on identifying some of the bodies. I got the family info on the ones they did ID but… I mean I guess we can go talk to those families. But, the families weren't there when it happened so I don't know what good that would do us."

"Well, if it is some kind of spirit, a very vengeful one at that, then one of the families might have known someone that died. We should cover all our bases, you know? I dug up something. There was some kind of train massacre in the 1930s on a train called the Flying Pussyfoot."

"I'm sorry," Dean said, chuckling a bit. "What was that name again?"

Sam gave him a withering look, his immaturity never ceasing to amaze the younger brother. "The Flying Pussyfoot. Anyway, the article was blocked out, but the website said if we wanted to know more we could go to their offices, which are here in New York. I've got the address. It seems like it could be worth checking up on."

Dean nodded. "Alright, we'll do that. Then, we can start sifting through this list of family members and go see if they can tell us anything. Hopefully there's some connection with the uh…Flying Pussyfoot." He chucked a bit, shaking his head. "I couldn't even make that one up." Clearing his throat, he returned to seriousness. "But I don't think there's gonna be anything we can learn from the families."

"Won't know unless we try, Dean," Sam said. He stood up and closed his laptop. "Could still be a vengeful spirit."

"When have you ever seen a ghost do that?" Dean asked, standing up and straightening his tie. "I think we're probably looking at something else entirely, maybe something we've never seen before."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"I don't know. You said something similar happened in the '30s. Maybe it's some kind of ancient god that requires a sacrifice every seventy to eighty years. I don't know. I just don't think we should be looking for a ghost."

"You're probably right," Sam said. It wasn't that Sam didn't trust his brother's judgement, there was just something off about this case. They had never worked a case before where Sam couldn't find some type of information about whatever they were hunting. And if a massacre of this proportion had happened before, there should be more information on it. Whatever happened aboard the Flying Pussyfoot all those years ago had to be connected to this somehow. He just hoped they could find that connection before whatever this thing was got away for another seventy years.

After driving through the crowded streets for several hours, the boys finally found the address they were looking for. The place was an unimpressive hole in the wall, or so it appeared from the outside. A small, weather-beaten sign announced it as the Daily Days offices. Sam peered through the stained windows, picking up movement from inside. Dean crossed his arms, looking up at the sign then shaking his head.

"This is a waste of time," he muttered. "Look at this place. It's probably been here since the twenties. Come on, let's go back to the car, alright?"

"No," Sam said, grabbing his brother's arm. "If it has been here that long that means it was around when the other incident happened. I mean, if that website is anything to go by, they know something. And we need to find out what. It's our only lead, man."

Dean relented, then pushed his way through the front doors and into the crowded room. The atmosphere was almost lively, people bustling about every which way. The sounds of keys being pressed, papers rustling, and people talking above the din of other sounds. The brothers stood, watching the hectic scene, everyone ignoring the two suit clad men. Finally, a young blonde woman appeared from another door, smiling genially.

"Hey, ya," she said, brushing the short, choppy hair out of her eyes. "Welcome to the Daily Days. What can I do you for?"

"We're looking for some information," Dean said, reaching into his jacket pocket and producing his fake ID. "We're from the FBI, looking into the incident aboard that train a few days ago. My partner and I found mention of a similar incident back in 1931. Where would we need to look to get information on that?"

"Ah," she said, leaning back slightly. "You're talking about the Flying Pussyfoot, right?" She boosted herself up on the desk, leaning forward slightly. "See, those records have been sealed since 1931. Feds didn't want that information out there or something. It was too gruesome. But if you were really FBI agents you would know that, wouldn't you?"

"Well, we…"

"Uh…"

She held up her hand. "I'm not mad you're pretending to be agents. Really, I could care less. So I'll make you a deal, okay boys? You tell me why you're really looking into the Flying Pussyfoot and I'll tell you what happened on board that train."

"You're," Sam said, shaking his head with a bit of bewildered amusement. "You're an information broker? Aren't you?"

"That's right," she affirmed.

"I thought that was a dying profession," he said, crossing his arms.

"Well, it some places it is. But we've been operating since before anybody in New York can remember and we ain't planning on going up in smoke now." She slid off the counter and stuck her hand out. "So, we got a deal or not, pretty boy?"

Before Sam could shake her hand, Dean pushed it out of the way. "We would tell you, but you wouldn't believe us. So what else can we do to get that information?"

"See the thing is, I know things you boys probably wouldn't believe. So there isn't much you can say that would shock me or anyone working at this fine establishment. And, the thing is, we don't really care about anything except collecting as much information as possible, so nothing you two can offer is of any value to me. The way I see it, you got yourselves a choice to make. Either tell me what I want to know, or don't. What do ya say, huh?"

Dean looked over at Sam for a minute, then nodded, reaching out and shaking her hand. "Deal. But," he crossed his arms. "Do you have a backroom or something? It's not something we want advertised."

"Yeah," she said. "Of course, boys." She sauntered off, walking through a door to her right. The Winchesters looked at each other for a moment, then followed her, neither quite knowing what to expect.

The Gandor family had always been ready to adapt to changes in the social atmosphere. First acting as bootleggers during prohibition, the Family had to survive the decriminalization of liquor, the founding of the FBI, and the new political landscape that made it even harder to operate under the radar. They had been bootleggers, ran underground casinos, and now they laundered ridiculous amounts of money from the companies and politicians they claimed to support. People knew of the infamous family but no one had ever gotten close enough to even throw a wrench in the works.

Even with the success of his Family, Luck had never wanted the task of heading up the organization. There was no doubt that he was a good boss, but he still found himself wondering if things would have been different if he'd never accepted the job of running the family. His brothers looked to him for their orders, even after all these years. There was no questioning his leadership; he was the leader of the Gandor Family, plain and simple.

Luck sat at his desk, a stack of untouched paperwork in front of him. Instead, his eyes scanned the newspaper in front of him, the inked words jumping out at him. "Over forty bodies found." "Police are stumped." "Whoever or whatever did this was a monster." He made a disgusted sound, deep in his throat and threw the paper to the side. Claire had better had a good reason for doing all that.

A light knock sounded on the door, causing him to look up. He leaned back in his seat with a sigh. "Come in," he instructed, regarding the suit clad man that entered. He quickly walked over to the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. Behind him, a mammoth of a man followed, body blocking the doorway completely. His brothers, Keith and Berga.

"We got news, Luck," Keith said, moving aside for his brother to stand beside him.

"Our contact up at the morgue said there was Fed snooping around," Berga interjected. "Asking questions about the bodies. Then, one of my guys called a minute ago and said he saw two Feds going into the Daily Days offices."

Luck sighed, rubbing his eyes with a groan. "Alright, he sure they were Feds?"

"Yeah," Berga said. "He said they showed IDs at the front. That's when he got out of there."

"Okay, get Claire on the phone. I want him in here as soon as possible." The youngest brother stood up from behind his desk. "I'm going to call Firo and give the Martillos a heads up." He walked around the desk and picked up the phone from the corner of his desk. Sitting on the edge he began to dial and his brothers made a hasty exit to follow his orders.

The line rang for a moment before a familiar voice sounded a greeting. "Hey, what's up?"

"Firo," he said, letting his lips pull up in a small smile despite himself and the situation. Even in the worst times of their lives, he had always been able to depend on his best friend. Besides his brothers, there was no one he was closer to. "We have a problem…"

Firo had certainly made a name for himself. He had become the youngest member of the Martillo Family back in 1930. He had also devoured the man who made the Grand Panacea that made them all immortal in the first place. Now, he had risen in the ranks to be the Don of the Family, replacing Don Martillo who retired several years ago, even though he was also immortal. The Martillos were mostly legitmate now, except for the gambling rings they ran, though and the assistance they gave to the Gandors with their ploys every now and again. The Families had always been on friendly terms, able to call on each other in a pinch.

"Yeah, I heard about the train incident," Firo said, voice drifting over the line. "That have anything to do with you guys."

"Yeah," Luck said. "But, the problem's bigger now. My guys say there's been some Feds poking around at the morgue and the Daily Days. I'd start watching your back if I were you. We'll be doing the same."

"Alright, thanks for the heads up, Luck."

"You're welcome, Firo."

"Hey, you should come over for dinner sometime soon. Ennis was just saying the other day that we haven't seen you or your brother's in what seems like forever."

"I'll be sure to do that once this whole business calms down. I have to go. I'll talk to you later." He hung up the phone, shaking his head in amusement. It had been about two years since he'd sat down to dinner with his friend. The world was so hectic now. But it wasn't like he didn't have all the time in the world.

"How's the little sprout doing?" another voice chimed in, making Luck look over at the door. He must have slipped in while Luck was on the phone. Claire always had been a sneaky man, able to fade into the background. However, Luck knew him well enough that this didn't surprise him at all.

"He's fine, of course," he responded. "But there is a problem."

"Yeah, the Feds. I heard." Claire pushed away from the wall he was leaning on and picked up one of the crystalline structures that decorated his bookshelves. "So, you want me to take 'em out or something?"

"No, I don't want any more killing coming from you for a long time," Luck said, agitation in his voice.

Claire looked at him, raising his eyebrows. "Alright, so what'd you call me in for?"

"You should probably get out of the city. Hop on another train and get the hell out of here, alright?" Luck walked over and took the bauble out his hand and replaced it on the shelf. "If there's one thing I don't want to happen it's the Feds getting their hands on you."

"Like they'd ever be able to get their hands on me." Claire smiled, chuckling a bit. "I have a better idea, okay? Hear me out. I'm not going to kill them. But I'll keep an eye on them for you. I'm probably better than whatever contacts Keith and Berga have, right? So that way, you'll know exactly what they're up to, and I'll have something to keep me busy and out of your hair."

"No, that's not what I want…" Luck trailed up as Claire simply walked around him to the window. Shoving it open he slipped out, disappearing from his view.

Luck waked over, looking down at the pavement a couple stories down, shaking his head. There was no sign of Claire anywhere. To this day, he was the only person who didn't listen to him. But, it had always been that way. Closing the window, he collapsed back into his seat, staring at the still untouched pile of paperwork. He felt like he hadn't accomplished one damn thing that day.

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 **Reviews?**


	3. Monster Follows Behind

**New chapter. Enjoy! I don't own Supernatural or Baccano and never will.**

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The boys were shown to a room in the back of the Daily Days offices. They sat on the fairly large couch and waited as the young blonde woman looked through her files. When she finally came back in, the boys straightened up and looked at her. She sat across from them, the file in her lap. Dean looked at here expectantly.

"Well, you gonna tell us what we want to know?" he asked, staring at her.

"You've got to tell me what I want to know first," she said, smirking slightly.

Sam sighed, then nodded. "Okay, we're hunters. Not like, game hunters. We hunt ghosts, demons, monsters, you name it. Anything that hurts people. And we think that whatever killed people aboard the Flying Pussyfoot might be some malevolent supernatural entity that's back again. We want to find it and kill it before it hurts anyone else."

She stared at them for a moment before bursting into laughter. "Alright, you've given me a laugh, now why don't you seriously tell me what's going on, huh?" She stared at them for a moment, neither recanting the man's statement. "Wait, you're being serious. So either, you're telling the truth, or you're both crazy."

"We're not crazy," Dean said. "We've seen shit that could drive a person to that, though. Look, we had a deal. We told you about us, so now you gotta tell us about that." He pointed to the file in her lap.

"Right…" She looked down as well then cleared her throat. "Well, you two don't really need to get involved. It wasn't a monster that killed people on board the Flying Pussyfoot. Actually, it was basically a war zone for two rival factions. We've come to discover that these factions were a group from the Russo Family and a terrorist group. It seems they killed more of each other than any of the innocent passengers. In fact, most of them lived. Not anything like what happened aboard this train. Of course, there is information I have about this train, but I'd need a bit more information about you two."

Sam looked at Dean, then shrugged. "Well, it's not like we have any leads right now…"

"Yeah, but what else could we tell the bitch?" Dean asked, crossing his arms.

"You could start with your names," she said. "Your real names. And then maybe tell me why you two became…hunters."

Dean frowned. "I'm Dean. This is my little brother Sam. We started hunting because our mom was killed by a demon. There? You happy?"

She gaped for a moment, then looked down. "Sorry about that. But, now I'll tell you about this train. No guarantees you'll believe me, though."

"Try us," Sam said.

"The people on this train weren't your ordinary passengers. They were all a member of an elite secret society. They called themselves the Seekers. And they sought only one thing: immortality. Of course, these guys weren't exactly good guys, you know what I mean? They tried some crazy shit to get immortality. Sacrificing virgins. Eating the liver of children. I've personally talked to some of the vets from the organization and they describe some of the most awful things they used to be party to."

"So how did a bunch of people searching for immortality end up getting slaughtered aboard a train? There was no way on and off the train unless you leaped to your death. So who the hell killed them all?"

"I have a guess, but his name is strictly under lockdown. But I will tell you this." She leaned forward, smirking slightly. "There was a monster aboard the Flying Pussyfoot. Not like the ones I'm sure you're used to dealing with but a monster he was. He took out the people who put his passengers at risk. Look up the Rail Tracer. See what you can figure out."

"Is that all you're going to give us?" Dean asked, getting a bit worked up. "We're trying to save lives here! Come on!"

She just rose to her feet, shrugging. "You two can show yourselves out, I guess." With a wave of her hand, she disappeared through the door, the boys watching her with bewilderment.

Sam stood, straightening his jacket with a sigh. "Okay, so this was a bit of a dead end. Sorry for wasting our time."

"No, you were right to want to look into it. And we did get something. Rail Tracer. Whatever that is." Dean stood and started walking from the room with Sam close behind him.

The two walked through the bustling newsroom back into the cold, gray afternoon. Churning clouds overhead promised rain, fairly soon. Walking down the crowded sidewalk, their conversation quickly died out. When they finally arrived at the Impala, which Dean had parked about a block away, they were both lost in their own thoughts.

"Dude," Dean said, breaking the silence as he started the car. "I just thought of something. We're in New York City. Let's go eat in Little Italy. Want to?"

"Don't we have more important things to worry about?" Sam asked dryly, realizing at the mention of food he'd already lost the battle.

"Yeah, but it's not like we don't need to eat. Come on, pull out that map you got and tell me how to get there."

"It'd be easier if we just took the subway…" Sam muttered, pulling the map out of the glovebox. "No traffic or worrying about parking…."

"I'm not leaving Baby sitting for a week, Sam!" Dean said, rubbing the car's dashboard lovingly. He backed the car up then thundered down the road, following Sam's directions. "Have you ever heard of this Rail Tracer, thing?" Dean asked, a few minutes later.

"No," Sam said, looking up from the map in his hands. "It's probably just some ridiculous urban legend. I'll look it up when we get back to the restaurant. I just don't think we're going to find our answers from them. The two train incidents probably aren't even related."

"Well, let's think about it," Dean said, stopping at a red light with a sigh. "With that incident, most of the passengers survived, right? But here, all of them died, including the conductors. I saw the body of one of them and it was pretty much torn to pieces. But, back in the thirties, those passengers were innocent, just trying to get somewhere. But these guys were pretty messed up. You know?"

"And the ones that died were putting the innocent passengers in danger"

"Was it the same train?"

"No, this train was fairly new," Sam said, looking down. "But it's not like it couldn't be a spirit attached to the railways. They were both transcontinental trains, going along the same tracks. It's possible this spirit follows some protective instinct to defend the trains against…unsavory people."

Dean continued driving, thinking over this suggestion. "I still don't think it's a spirit, Sam. But I don't think that woman was right either. This wasn't a person. There's just no way."

"I agree." Dean turned, parking the car on the side of the road against the sidewalk. "Well, where you wanna eat at?

Sam looked around at the line of restaurants that stretched past where he could see. "Uh, well… How about that place?" He acknowledged the small building right beside them.

"Alveare?" Dean said, voice contemplating. "Alright, works for me."

The two got out of the Impala and walked into the bustling place. Neither noticed the red headed man that slipped in behind them, sitting in a booth a few feet away.

Claire ordered a plate of pasta, leaning back in his seat. His ears picked up the conversation coming from the FBI agents behind him. So far, he hadn't heard them talking about anything particularly interesting. His brown eyes danced around, looking at each of the patrons, not very interested in any of them.

"Alright, I've looked up Rail Tracer and I haven't found anything except some old urban legends, just like I thought," one said. He was the taller one, with a computer opened in front of him. "It's a monster that follows trains around, apparently."

The red head smirked, wondering what an FBI agent cared about the Rail Tracer. He chuckled lowly, then turned in his seat to look at them. "Hey, did I hear one of you mention the Rail Tracer?" he asked, gaining both their attentions.

The shorter, older one fixed him with an annoyed look before nodding. "Yeah," he said. "You know anything about it?"

"I know everything about it," he answered. He quickly slid out of his booth and joined the other two, sliding in next to the taller one. "I'll tell you everything, if you want."

"Alright," the one he was sitting next to said. "Yeah, please. Anything to help with our investigation. Uh, we're FBI agents looking into the incident-"

"On the U.S. Continental that derailed the other day," Claire interrupted. "Yeah, I guessed. First off, what do I call you two? Or should be keep this formal, agents?"

"I'm Agent Perry and this is Agent Gladstone," the tall one replied. "Uh, but you can just call me Sam if you want."

The other, Agent Gladstone presumably, gave the other a look before letting out a sigh. "I'm Dean. And who are you?"

He watched the two for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth before deciding to be truthful with the two. "I'm Claire. So what would you like to know about Rail Tracer?"

"Well, what I've figured out is it's a spirit that follows trains around." Sam said, looking at him. "What else do you know?"

"The spirit called Rail Tracer does follow trains. To be more exact, he traces the rails that the trains travel on. He protects the trains, I guess." Claire smirked, looking between the two. "See, the Rail Tracer cares about nothing but his trains. When he comes upon a train, he kills everyone on it, then the train vanishes from the tracks. The only way to keep the Rail Tracer from appearing is to believe the story when someone tells it to you. But once he's there, you just have to run until morning and hope he doesn't kill you."

The two just stared at him, completely unaffected by his tale. Dean shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. "No offense, uh Claire, but I don't think that's what we were expecting. But thanks for telling us that…story."

"Well, you didn't expect all your answers, huh?" He stood up, stretching his arms behind his back. "You're investigating a serious crime. It's not like you think some sort of ghost did it." He chuckled a bit darkly. "Have a nice day, agents…" He sauntered back to his seat, just as the waitress came and dropped his food off for him.

A few minutes later, a familiar young man slid into the seat across from him, removing his fedora and placing it on the table. Claire smirked at him around a mouthful of linguini.

"Don't say anything, Claire," he said holding up his hand. "Luck called me back and told me to be on the lookout for you. You know, he's really worried about your getting yourself caught or something. You don't want to end up in some lab, as someone else's experiment, do ya?"

"No, Firo, I don't," he said, setting down his fork. "But I would be more worried about yourself, if I were you. You know I can take care of myself."

"Please, just go back home, okay?"

"No, I'm having fun. I'm going to keep fucking around with these "FBI" agents," he said, chuckling and motioning with his head towards them.

Firo glanced over, gaping a bit. "Is that them?" he asked.

"Yeah, but don't worry. There's no way these two are actually Feds. You tell Luck not to worry his little head about it. I'm going to take care of them for him."

Sam and Dean stood walking from the restaurant. Claire stood as well, flipping his collar up, before following them. He chuckled again, brown eyes lighting up with amusement as Firo watched him leave in dumbfounded bewilderment.

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	4. Hunters Are Attacked

**Hey, so I'm sorry this took so long to update. I started college! But I'll try and update more frequently from here on out. I don't own Supernatural or Baccano and never will. If you have questions, PM me!**

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Stretched out on the couch, his suit jacket rolled up to act as a makeshift pillow for him, Luck was enjoying a light doze. The room was silent except for his calm and even breathing. His tie laid on the floor beside the couch until another set of hands scooped it up. The other person walked away and dropped the tie onto the desk, a smirk coming to their red painted lips. Her heels clicked against the wooden floors as she approached the couch again. Sitting beside him, she reached out and ran a soft hand over his cheek until his eyes slowly opened to look at her.

Shooting up, he stared at her, bewildered. "Who are you?" he found himself asked, as he took in her appearance. Low cut top. Short, tight skirt. Heels that had to be at least six inches. Thick makeup and bright red lips. He pushed her hand away and repeated his question, adding, "How the hell did you even get in here. I have guards. What-"

"I let her in," another voice added. From the shadows in the corner of the room, Claire emerged. His eyes shone with amusement. "You've been so stressed out lately, I just thought you might need a way to relieve some of it. And, well, what better way then-"

"She's a hooker?" Luck asked with a bit of exasperation. "Claire you know I don't…"

"Oh come on, baby. It'll be alright," the woman purred, voice deep within her chest. "I'll even let your friend join if you want."

"Oh, I'm flattered," Claire said. "But I'm a married man. No, Luck here is the one who deserves all your attention."

The golden eyed man glared at his step brother with a surprising bit of malice. The woman leaned forward and his eyes were drawn down to her cleavage as she pushed against his chest to make him lie down again. His anger turned quickly to discomfort as she leaned in and begin kissing him. Luck pushed her away as gently as he possibly could in his disgust. His skin crawling like ants marching all over him, he stood up and walked over to the door. "I'm sorry," he said to the prostitute who was staring at him with surprise. "I don't mean to offend, but I cannot do this with you. Please talk to my brother and he will see you're paid a fair amount."

She shrugged, then stood and walked out of the room. "Whatever you say sugar. I was just glad you weren't ugly like most of my other clients." Her heels clicked out, and Luck quickly shut the door behind her, turning his glare back to his brother.

"What's wrong, Luck," he asked, brown eyes twinkling. "Not a fan of hookers? Now, that's a little closeminded, don't you think? You're old enough to be past that twentieth century sort of thinking."

"It's not that she's a prostitute!" Luck snapped walking back over to the couch and collapsing on it. He lowered his head into his hands, a deep sigh rising from his chest. "You know I have no interest in sex. Like none at all. Why do you keep doing these type of things?"

"You know I'm just messing with you. I don't expect you to go through with anything. If I wanted you to, I'd just make you do it. You know I can do that right? After all, you're just a product of my mind." The red head walked over and sat beside his brother with a huff. "You're such a stick-in-the-mud lately. You used to laugh at stuff like this."

"Yeah, that was before. Before everything that's happened in the past week. I'm stressed beyond belief and it's mostly your fault." He looked up at his brother, glaring slightly. "Speaking of, where the hell did you go today? Why don't you even fucking listen to me when I tell you not to do something? What if those Feds had spotted you, or trailed you back here?"

Claire chucked, shaking his head. "You don't need to worry anymore about them. Trust me on this, they are not FBI. When I followed them to the Alveare, they were researching the Rail Tracer." Luck stiffened at the mention of his brother's alias. "Now, why the hell would Feds be looking into that?" Claire reassured. "And they were too…unprofessional when I talked to them."

"You talked to them…?" Luck asked, looking forward at the wall in exasperation. He heaved a great sigh once again, then stood up, rubbing his hands over his face. "I need to…I need to go home. I need sleep. Don't do anything else really stupid tonight, okay? I'm going to have them killed. I'll send out some hitmen tonight. Talk to Berga, yeah. I'll get Berga to do it."

"Why send some pathetic guys when you could just send me?" Claire said, chuckling. "And really, there's no point. Like I said, they're not Feds!" He leaned back, putting his arms behind his head.

"I don't believe that for a second. I have sources saying they are. And I'm not taking any chances." He turned back toward his brother, face softening a bit. "Alright… You go. You've been tailing them all day anyway. Leave no trace that they were ever there, alright?"

"Easy." Claire said. "By midnight, they'll be out of your hair forever. And trust me, they'll be no investigation as to why they suddenly disappeared, because they're not connected to the feds in any way." Claire laughed for a moment, shaking his head. "They told me their real names for God's sakes. Sam and Dean. I mean, how ridiculous do they sound."

"They sound like normal names to me, Claire," Luck said, tiredly.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say," Claire reached over and picked up his brother's suit jacket and tossed it to him. "Go get some sleep. Tomorrow, this will all be over."

Dean stepped out of the bathroom, yawning as he stretched his arms above his head. Sam sat on the bed, computer opened in front of him, still trying to find any information on the Rail Tracer of the Flying Pussyfoot that could connect back to the case they were working. His exasperated expression showed just how unsuccessful his venture was.

"Any luck?" Dean asked, sitting down onto his own bed.

"No," Sam said, shutting the laptop and groaning with frustration. "There's nothing. The Rail Tracer is nothing but a myth, a legend. And the Flying Pussyfoot must have been almost completely covered up because outside of what we found at the Daily Days, the only thing I could find was an article about this senator being caught up in it somehow. There wasn't a lot of information. Just that his wife and daughter were on board."

"Well, are they still alive?"

"Don't know. The name was Beriam. There's a chance the daughter is at least. I'll look it up in the morning. We need to get some sleep." He set the laptop on the bedside table. "If she is still alive, we can go talk to her. Maybe get some information."

"Sounds like a good plan," Dean replied. He flipped off the lamp beside his bed, then laid down. Sam mirrored his movements. A few moments of silence passed as the men's breathing evened out. Tranquility painted the scene until the window slowly slid up, making absolutely no sound. A lithe body slipped in. He blended into the darkness, all expect for his eyes which almost glowed, murderously red.

He passed over to Dean's bed, the closest to the window, hands reaching out to close around his throat. At the softest touch, Dean's eyes sprang open. An iron grip clamped onto his throat as his airway was quickly cut off. He grabbed onto the wrists of his attacker beginning to thrash around like an animal stuck in a cage. His feet kicked at the unidentified figures body, but somehow he never managed to make contact. In his mind, the creature must be almost incorporeal, but in reality, he was just avoiding him like the acrobat he was.

However, Dean's fighting brought the other hunter from his sleep. He shot up and threw himself over the bed at the creature. Claws dug into Dean's neck as he was lifted up and used almost like a shield by the creature. Blood ran down his arms. A smile stretched across his face, teeth shining in the darkness as he threw Dean's body forward. It collided with Sam and the both fell to the ground.

Dean shot up almost immediately and grabbed a knife off the table. He turned and lunged at the creature who easily maneuvered around him. His wrist was grabbed and twisted, snapping it in two easily. He screamed out of the surprising pain, "Damn it! Sam!"

His brother stood, then stepped forward and threw a punch toward their attacker. He stopped it easily, pushing Sam back to the table. Dean tried to kick the creature's legs out from under him, but he jumped up and flipped. As his hand still had a vice tight grip on Dean's arm, the hunter came with him, flipping onto his back and landing hard. With the wind knocked out of him, he stared almost hopelessly as it stood over him. Then, he lowered himself on the man's chest, knees digging into his ribs. His hands went around the man's throat again, once again trying to strangle him.

Sam came up behind him and brought the knife pulled out of his pocket, just a little pocket knife, down into the creature's shoulder. He didn't even flinch, just kept his death grip on Dean. Distraught, Sam ran to the lamp and flipped it on. He thought that if he could just see this creature, maybe he'd know how to fight it. Stop it from killing his brother. Turning, he gaped at the man on top of his brother, glowing red eyes now just a normal brown. His claws were just normal fingers. He was a seemingly average man.

He looked over at Sam, smirking at him. A challenge with no words. That's when Sam realized that he was the man that they had met in the Italian restaurant earlier that day. Below him, Dean stopped breathing, so the creature stood up. Walking on him like he was a slab of carpet, not a person. He came toward Sam, stepping up onto the bed and crossing over so he was staring down at the man.

"I told you the only way to stop the rail tracer was to believe, Sam," he chuckled, jumping down and glaring up at the man who was frozen in shock. "You didn't believe did you? Well, I guess if you had, I wouldn't be here. Right?"

He grabbed Sam, hands on his throat. The taller man fought back uselessly. The man had inhuman strength. He must be something, Sam thought as the edges of his vision blackened. He might look normal, but he can't be. There's no way. His fighting became weaker and weaker until he finally just hung limp in the savage's arms.

"Oh, you're not giving up that easily are you? Well this wasn't very fun," he said, shaking Sam's body before shrugging. "Oh well…"

Suddenly, a hammer struck him on the side of the head and the man slumped to the ground, a fresh wound appearing on the side of his head. Sam dropped to his knees, gasping for air as he looked up at his brother. He had bruises and cuts along his neck, but he was alive.

"Come on," Dean said, hoisting his brother to his feet. "Help me tie this maniac up. I don't think that was the killing blow."

"Is he human, Dean?" Same asked as they picked up the creature's body and threw it into a chair. As Dean grabbed the rope out of the bag on the table, Sam questioned again, "Well, is he?"

"I don't know!" Dean snapped, throwing the rope to his brother. Together they tied him tightly, making escape seemingly impossible. "He looks like it, but so do a lot of things before they take on their true form. What I do know, though, is that we're going to get to the bottom of this. Tonight."

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 **Review please!**


	5. Monster Works The Situation

**New chapter! I don't think this took too long. But if it did, I apologize. Enjoy this chapter. Remember, I don't own Baccano or Supernatural and never will.**

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Claire tried very hard not to smirk. He felts ropes being tied around him very tightly, but not quite tightly enough to contain him when he decided to escape. The two boys talked over him, arguing about his humanity, oh if only they knew. The wound on his head slowly closed up, making both of them fall silent to watch the strange scene. He snapped his head up, grinning at both of them. He didn't like boring kills. And this could be the perfect chance for some fun for the sociopath.

Dean stepped forward, unflinching, and ran the tip of a silver knife down the side of his cheek. He didn't flinch when it broke through the skin. A few seconds later, the blood returned to the cut and it healed itself automatically. The man dropped the knife, staring in confusion at the other.

"How the hell is it doing that," the other, Sam, asked.

"I can't help that I'm immortal," Claire answered, making the two look at him with a mix of confusion and disgust. "Just like you can't help that you're both just a product of my mind. If I didn't want you here, I could just zap you away, easy as that."

"Oh, so you're no monster. Just crazy," Dean said, rolling his eyes and turning away. "Maybe we should just throw him out in back and leave him there."

Sam wasn't listening to his brother's suggestion though. He just continued to stare at Claire, eyebrows furrowing. "Are you the Rail Tracer?" he asked, suddenly. "The legend you told us earlier. The only reason you know it is because, it's you isn't it?"

"Oh, you're a bit smarter than I've given you credit for." Claire smirked, looking up at them through his red bangs which fell in front of his face. "Aren't you two curious to know how I healed so easily? You did draw blood…because I let you. But there's no wounds now. You wanna know? I know you do." He chuckled, a bit darkly.

"Yeah, we wanna know. So you're going to start talking. Now," Dean ordered, picking up another knife and holding it under Claire chin, pressed to his throat.

"That's not going to do any good with me," he said with a laugh. "I'll tell you everything you wanna know if you do me a favor."

"Why the hell would we do you a favor?" Dean asked, voice hardening as the knife pressed harder against his skin. "You'll talk because we say you will or we'll just torture it out of you. We don't take orders from monsters."

"Monster?" He shook his head, allowing the knife to slice into the skin of his throat and laughing as it healed before the hunters' eyes. "I'm no more of a monster than you two are. I'm just…basically your God. I created you both with just the power of my mind. You're both basically a dream I'm having."

"Did you kill the people aboard the train? The U.S. continental?" Sam asked. "There's no way you could have done that if you weren't some kind of monster. Those people were torn apart like rag dolls. What the hell do you know about that?"

Claire just stared at them for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders, the ropes falling to the ground around him. He stood up, as the Winchester's quickly backed away and armed themselves. "I'm not going to try and kill you again. You guys are too much fun to kill. I just want a simple favor and I'll answer all of your questions, okay?" His hands folded in front of him, an evil glint in his eyes. "Of course, killing you would be easy as well. It's your choice, boys."

"What kind of favor do you want from us?" Sam spit out, eyes flicking over toward his older brother. His teeth clenched slightly, nerves at high alert. "If you're going to ask us to abandon the case or something…"

"No, I wouldn't ask something like that," Claire said, pacing over to the table where an assortment of knives and guns lay scattered, ready for use. He hoisted himself up easily, sitting on the edge and picked up a fairly large, silver blade and began toying with it, making the Winchester's even more nervous than they already were. "I can tell you two are very dedicated to…whatever you think you're going to accomplish here. And just me making you get out of town wouldn't be quite as interesting. No, it's something much simpler than that. Something to make my brother stop worrying so much."

"Well, spit it out," Dean commanded, trying desperately not to reveal how the man's casual actions were putting him on edge. He hated not knowing what to do. Hunting was the one place he seemed to shine, and for this creature, whatever he was, to stump the man like this was a serious blow to his self-esteem, whatever was left of it anyway.

"I need you to call my brother. I can give you the number. Just let him know you aren't real FBI agents so that he can maybe get some sleep tonight. For someone in his position, the FBI is probably the scariest thing in the world."

The blaringly loud ringing of a phone woke the slumbering man. His golden eyes blinked open, a groan escaping his lips. He sat up, slowly, blinking in a sort of confusion before the sound registered and his eyes found the phone, sitting on his desk across the room. He slowly stood up and walked over, yawning slightly. It was rare he got calls on his personal phone. It was even rarer that it would be something serious. More than likely, it was Claire or Firo. A sleepy, "Hello," was spoken into the speaker, met by a static filled silence. "Hello," he asked again, more insistent.

"Yeah, I'm asking for uh..Luck? Is that what you said? Luck? Okay, yeah. Luck," an unfamiliar voice said, seemingly speaking to someone else with him. "Yeah, this is concerning your brother."

"What about my brother," Luck asked, voice going icy. His eyes narrowed as he walked to the other side of the room and pressed the button that would send an alert to the rooms his other two brothers should be sleeping in. They would be there in just a few minutes.

"Yeah, he wanted me to call you and let you know that we're not FBI," the voice said, surprising the man. "Yeah, he just wanted you not to worry, I guess." There was a pause, a clanging coming from the other side almost as if the phone had been dropped. Then, the voice continued after a moment. "Yeah, not FBI. We're just two guys looking into things for our own personal amusement. Sorry to bother you."

The line went dead just as Berga came lumbering in the room with sleepy eyes but bod alert. "What's going on, Luck?" he asked, looking around. "The alarms started going off the hook."

"The FBI's got Claire," he said, as Keith also slipped into the room, slyly looking around. "Well, it's not the FBI actually. Which just begs the question: who are they?"

"Okay, we did what you asked us," Dean said, setting down the phone and looking over to the grinning man still perched atop the table. "Now, you answer some of our questions, right?"

"Depends on what you ask," Claire said, dropping the knife down onto the carpeted floor, now bored with it. "So, ask away, and keep me interested."

"What are you," Sam asked, attempting to stare him down.

"Um, well, human, I guess in your terms. Though, like I said, everything is just a part of my mind. I made all of this up, this room, those beds, even you two. So, I guess, I'm kinda like a god."

Dean looked over at Sam, a moment of worry flashing over his face. "Is this a Djinn induced dream or something? Was it you or…is it me?"

Claire chuckled, shaking his head. "You two just don't get it. You don't actually exist! You're not dreaming. I am!" He hopped off the table, making the others take a few steps back. "I'm tired of explaining this. Move on."

"What happened on board the U.S. Continental?"

"Which one?" Claire asked, a demonic look coming over his face, sending shivers up both men's spines. "There's been several train related…accidents… over the years. You'll have to remind me of which we're talking about."

"The one from last week," Sam said, trying to prod the man. "Please, we just want to understand why…how you could do something like that."

Claire sighed, crossing his arms. "A few weeks ago, that train thundered through Chicago. Chicago's one of my favorite cities, besides New York City. Anyway, I stood outside the train as all these passengers got off. All of them. Every passenger that got on in Seattle was forced off, their bags thrown to the ground. Young women, children that were traveling alone were forced off. Then, these men, men in dark cloaks looking like they stepped out of a book about the nineteenth century got on. I asked what was going on, wanting to know why in the hell these men were more important than every other passenger. The conductor told me that they were part of some society, like the Masons, and had paid through the nose to make sure the whole train was emptied out for them. Well, I smelled a rat, of course. So, just as we got outside New York, I heard a commotion coming from one of the passenger cars. I went to find out what it was and well, these men were sacrificing a young child, drinking his blood like wine. I was disgusted, of course, and decided to wipe the scum off the face of the earth."

"Why didn't you just go to the authorities, like a normal person?" Dean asked, stepping forward. "They could have handled it and well, you wouldn't have become a murderer."

"I'm already a murderer," Claire said, chuckling softly. "I've worked for the mafia as a hitman for several long decades. Trust me, some of the things I've done could turn your stomach. What happened aboard that train was barely a workout for me."

A heavy silence fell, making the other two men take several steps away from the man they now knew was a murderer. It had been clear before, but now it was even more obvious. They could now both almost see the red head committing each awful act, with a smile on his face. Terror was an emotion neither had felt for a long time but it was edging up on the surface for both of them as the demonic man looked between them. He was enjoying this, toying with them. Maybe he really did think he was their god. Maybe he really was.

"Look," Claire said, inching backwards toward the window. "Those men deserved what they got. I wouldn't have killed them all if they hadn't. You both should just pack up and move on. Do whatever you do far away from this city, because trust me, whatever happens here is going to be controlled by me and my brothers."

"We can't do that," Sam said, suddenly, making the man stop his retreat. "What you did was horrible, inhuman, even if they did deserve the worst for their actions. It's not your place to decide that. I don't think you are human. And when nonhuman things kill humans-"

"We kill it," Dean finished for him, eyes going hard.

Claire looked between the two men for a moment, then began to chuckle, darkly. "Well, I'll hand it to you boys. You've got spunk. And you're half-right. I'm not exactly human. But I am. Or I was. Still am. I don't know. But what you really need to know is that you can't kill me. There's absolutely no way."

"We'll see about that," Dean said, a hint of malice edging up in his voice as did the courage in his spirit. "Just know this, we're not leaving until you're good and dead."

"Then I guess I should say welcome to your new home. New York City. It's a wonderful place to live," the other said, chuckling again. He was completely unperturbed by the mens' threats. He just continued to smile at them in a way that was becoming more and more uncertain. "Just a warning, though. There are others like me in this city that aren't quite as…nice. They will take your threats seriously, and they will deal with the problem. You. So, you might want to rethink this crusade. Or just pray you won't run into any of them."

He turned and slipped out of the window as quickly and quietly as he had entered, leaving the Winchester's just staring at the place he had been. A heavy feeling settled on both of them, goosebumps rising on their arms. It wasn't every day that something could unsettle the hunters in this way, but somehow this man had done it. They knew for sure to take his threats seriously, but they also knew they couldn't just leave. They would stay until they could make some sense out of everything. Figure out what was going on. They would figure out some way to kill the monster known as Rail Tracer, or they would die trying.

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	6. Hunters Go To A Sit Down

**So update. Yay! It's been awhile guys but I think this chapter more than makes up for the wait. Or maybe not and you'll all hate me for it. Either way, we're getting at some of the deeper plot points and hinting at some of the larger archs of the story. Hope you enjoy. Remember, I don't own Baccano or Supernatural and never will!**

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As Claire slipped out the window and started walking away from the motel, knowing that neither of the boys would bother trying to follow him, he smirked to himself thinking the day must have been a success. Sure, he hadn't managed to actually kill them, but he sure scared the life out of them. As he started down the busy street toward where he'd parked his car, a familiar set of footsteps sounded behind him. His smirk widened as he walked into a nearby alley, and leaned against the wall, waiting for them to catch up.

Sure enough, a few moments later, a black clad figure stepped into the alley way. The glint of a knife caught his attention as the blade was raised to his throat, quick as lightening and a beautiful pair of eyes bore into his. The assassin crossed his arms, playful expression on his face for a second before he leans forward against the knife slightly, knowing full well that the owner would never actually hurt him, or even try.

"Hey, what's the matter, Chane…? You're obviously mad about something," he said, smirk intensifying as she pressed the knife closer to his throat. She just glared at him with angry eyes, mouth pulled back in a scowl. "Come on, love, it's not like they could have actually hurt me. I was in complete control the whole time, I promise. You really shouldn't worry about me so much."

She suddenly lowered the knife in one swift motion and used her empty hand to push him back against the wall. Standing on her toes, she glared deeply in his eyes, causing the smirk to fall off his face. He loved teasing the girl but sometimes she did seriously do something to insinuate she cared about him and he was thrown back again by how much he actually cared for her. Chane then did something entirely unexpected as she leaned in and kissed him lightly.

He responded to the surprising display of affection, of course, and gave her a goofy grin when she pulled away. Her glare returned full force, however, which made him sigh and frown slightly. "Did Luck call to say I was on some "dangerous mission" or something," he asked, using air quotes and a roll of his eyes to enunciate how ridiculous he thought it was. She nodded, which only made him sigh again. "Look, Chane, I'm fine. I know you don't like it when I do work for my brother's but you have to realize, I can't die. Nothing's going to actually hurt me. Same for you. Luck got you some of that magic elixir, remember?" He slowly stepped forward as she dropped her arm.

"Don't you love me, Chane?"

She nodded, glare softening a bit.

"Then shouldn't you trust me a little more?"

She nodded again, glancing away. He gently grabbed her chin and turned her face up toward his.

"And shouldn't you stop attacking me in alleyways every time I do something you don't necessarily like?"

She frowned at this and shook her head, making sure he saw the knife in her hand again. He chuckled slightly and held his arms outstretched, inviting her into a hug.

"Alright, I admit that I like it a little bit…"

She lowered the knife again and stepped into his embrace, letting him hold her against his lean, muscular chest for a few moments. He pulled her tightly against him, a rush of happiness spreading through every limb of his body. Every time he held her he felt some sort of fire running through his veins, igniting passions that no one else had ever even touched. The fact that his mind was able to create such a perfect person was astounding to him. Eventually, she pulled away and tucked the knife into the holster on her hip, then took his hand and led him home.

* * *

Dean woke up, a pounding on the door making him sit up, immediately on high alert. A glance to his left revealed Sam in a similar state on the other bed. Dean quickly stood up and walked to the door, picking up a sliver knife off the table as he went. He hid the knife behind his back as he swung open the door. A man in a nice, tailored suit met his gaze evenly before extending his hand which held a small slip of paper.

"My boss would like to meet with you and your…partner. He knows that you're not with the Feds and would like to know what you're doing in the city," the man said, as Dean took the paper warily. "That's the address he would like to meet at today at 3:00 p.m. sharp. If you wish to resolve this, please come meet with him. He promises that no harm will come to you if you should be respectful. No weapons allowed."

Dean looked up at him, glaring slightly. "But, I'm sure that he'll have plenty of armed guards like you around," he said, glancing into the man's open jacket at his gun in the holster. "Tell him we'll only go if he makes sure that the murderer that was on the transcontinental train is there. We want him handed over to us."

"I highly doubt that will happen," the man said, expression never changing from the hard, emotionless blank slate. "There's a number there where you can reach someone in his office to agree to the meeting. If you haven't called by 2:00 you can forget any chance at peace."

"What will happen then?" Sam asked as he walked up behind Dean, glaring at the man, just as wary as his older brother.

"Then, he'll pass down the order to have you killed." The man looked between the brothers for a moment before tipping his hat to them and turning and walking away. The boys watched him go, both a little dumbfounded before Dean slammed the door closed and looked down at the paper as Sam walked around, turning on the small motel lamps placed randomly in the room. Sure enough, in small, cursive scrawl was an address a phone number.

"Well, are we going to go?" Sam asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I mean, if that monster isn't there than what would even be the point? I'm assuming the "boss" is that guy we had to call last night, right?"

"You're probably right," Dean said, setting the paper on the table beside their assortment of weapons. "I don't know if we should go. I know we shouldn't go if they won't let us arm ourselves. But, we could get some questions answered at least…" The man sighed, crossing his arms. "I don't know, Sammy. We could be walking straight into a trap."

"Well, we can't just leave!" Sam stood up, frowning. "That monster, these monsters, however many there are, they could kill so many more people. What if they start killing innocents? What if they already have? I think that we have an obligation to go. This is our job."

"You're right, Sammy…" Dean muttered to himself a moment before pulling a gun out of his bag, checking to make sure it was loaded before tucking it in the back of his jeans. Pulling out another, he handed it to Sam, a severe look on his face.

Sam took it uncertainly. "But, that man said no weapons."

"I don't give a shit," Dean said, gruffly. "If we're going in there, we're going with weapons. I'm not having us walk up to some...monster mafia man unprepared. I'm just going on the assumption that they're all just like that character that broke in here last night."

"I would guess the same," Sam said, looking down at the gun now in his hand, then stands and tucks it into his jeans as well. "Alright, I'll make the call. Set up the meeting and we'll just see what happens."

"No, we're not going to see what happens," Dean said. "We're going to get some answers. And if we have to do it with guns blazing, then that's what we'll do."

* * *

Berga, sitting in the spacious office that Luck had given him, was staring blankly at the wall. A stack of paperwork sat ignored. He knew eventually Keith would come and do it for him, so why would he bother? He was waiting for a phone call that would guarantee him a showdown. Over the past two or three decades, Berga had become the true muscle for the family. He was in charge of anything involving violence, whether that be torturing someone for information or just beating up a guy cause he snitched to the cops. All the paperwork and money handling that his brother did had become absolutely boring and monotonous for him. He felt cooped up inside the office and wished that he could be back on the mean streets of New York City, like the old days.

What he really didn't want to do was sit and wait for a phone call. Luck had told him if by two o' clock he hadn't heard anything, he could go do whatever he wanted for the rest of the day. The idea was appealing, but now that he was sitting with nothing to do but wait for the familiar ring, the large Mafioso was regretting his decision. With a sigh, he stood up and walked to the bookshelf, a bored look in his eyes, eyes scanning the spines for something interesting but finding nothing as usual. Suddenly, the phone behind him let out a shrill ring and raced toward it, excitement building in his heart and pumping out through his veins. "Hello," he shouted into the receiver, much too loud for the poor person on the other end of the line.

"Um…" the voice said, obviously belonging to that of a young man. "I was… We were given this number to call if we wanted to meet up? Well, we accept your terms and would like to do so. Maybe answer some confusion for both our sakes."

"I'll pass the information along," he said, voice gruff and superior. "You have the address. Be there on time." He slammed the phone down and quickly took off as fast as his large body could and jogged over to Luck's office. Without even announcing himself, as per usual, he burst in and shouted his news. "Those fake Feds just called me and agreed to the meeting. Should I get the squad together?" The squad, as Berga had taken to calling it, was a group of men who worked under Berga as the muscle for the Family. They were the ones sent to beat people up and cut fingers off if a debt wasn't repaid. They were ruthless and bloody and Berga could sense his brother's tension with just the mention of them.

"No, no," Luck said, shaking his head. "This needs to be handled with more finesse and less skull pounding violence. "Get Claire on the phone. Tell him he has a chance to redeem himself for last night's blunder. Have him wait outside in case I need him, but I honestly don't think that will be necessary. As you and I both know, Berga, I'm not exactly a vulnerable man..."

It was very hard for Berga to hide his disappointment, and he was never completely sure he managed to do it all the way, but he nodded his head in agreement anyway. "So, I take it you're going in alone then?"

"Not entirely," Luck said, standing up and straightening his tie. "I've gotten Firo to agree to accompany me. He's just as curious about the whole situation as I am. And these "Feds" have crossed into Martillo terf already, and quite a few people are on high alert because of it."

"Alright…" the elder brother said, scratching his head. "But I thought you might want to rough these boys up and send them packing back to where they came from? Seems like it would be a lot more simple than having a cute little meeting."

"Diplomacy is the virtue of any great leader," Luck murmured under his breath. "Trust me on this, Berga. I'm going to take care of everything and protect this Family. But until we know who they are and how many more of them there are, we can't just kill them. We just don't know what the unforeseen consequences could be, and we don't want any unnecessary attention."

Berga knew his younger brother was right. But he didn't like it. He expressed this discontent with a heavy sigh, then nodded and turned to leave the room. Luck might be the youngest of the Gandor brothers, but he was certainly the smartest. There was a good reason why Father had left him the position of Don and why neither Keith nor Berga minded. They both knew they would never be able to do a better job than the reigning Don of the Gandor Family.

* * *

Dean looked at the small, unimpressive building from across the street, umbrella held over his head as the pitter patter of raindrops hit against it. Beside him, Sam stood in a similar position, also contemplating the building in front of them. The one they were supposed to meet up with a genuine mafia man that neither knew anything about. With a deep sigh, Dean motioned for his brother to cross the street when the traffic lulled a bit, and they both jogged across and closed their umbrellas as they stepped into the warmth and dryness of the building.

The smell of old books assaulted them as they looked around at the many rows of shelves. Each held many tomes of different shapes, sizes, and thickness. Wanting to lighten the mood, Dean jabbed Sam in the ribs and whispered jokingly, "Now don't come in your pants or anything. I know you like books, but let's be professional about this." He smirked up at his younger brother and was met with a disapproving frown. Dean coughed, letting the smirk slide from his face as he straightened up and looked around the shop suspiciously. There didn't seem to be any sign of life in the whole place.

"Maybe this is the wrong address," Sam said, shrugging.

"No," Dean insisted. "This is the place, I swear. I triple checked. I'm getting an uneasy feeling about this… But we should at least look around…"

"Alright," Sam agreed, then slowly made his way toward the left side of the store while Dean quietly made his way to the right.

Dean maneuvered his way through the bookcases, heavy feet trodding silently over the wooden floor. He continuously glanced around him, always on high alert, and not ready to be surprised by anything or anyone he might find hidden among the dusty old books. It was when he had reached the farthest shelf that he peered around and the breath caught in his throat.

A man, young and handsome, leaned back against the shelf, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and two of the buttons of his shirt undone. His light brown hair was slicked back, a single lock hanging in front of his forehead tantalizingly. In his hands was a red bound book that could have at least been a century old by the looks of it. Dean felt his mouth go dry, the feeling far too familiar to him. As he leaned around the bookshelf to get a better look, his foot hit a squeaky floorboard and his cover was suddenly blown. The man looked up at him, surprise in his golden eyes as he looked him over, and Dean couldn't help but feel slightly judged by him.

Sam came soon enough, the sound having alerted him even from across the bookshop. He took a defensive stance behind Dean, glaring at the man who was studying his brother, paying no mind to the larger man behind him. Finally, a throat clearing broke the tense silence as another, smaller figure walked over, a green fedora perched on his head casting his boyish face into shadow.

Dean snapped out of his trance, turning his eyes away from the beautiful man, that's the only way he could think to describe him. Instead, he focused on the shorter one, a familiar feeling tugging at his brain as if he'd seen this one before somewhere. He pushed the thought away as the man with the enchantingly golden eyes begin to speak, rooting him to the spot and mesmerizing him. His voice flowed from his lips like honey, the distinctive Brooklyn accent only making Dean's heart hammer in his chest.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, crossing his arms with a slightly smug smirk. One that only a man that knew he held the trump card could give. "Why don't we get this meeting started, hmm?"

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	7. Monster Listens In

**Wow okay so I wasn't expecting to have this chapter done this fast, but I go really excited. So here it is. I hope you enjoy it. Remember, I don't own Supernatural or Baccano and never will.**

* * *

His green eyes glimmered in the light that filtered in from the windows above their heads. His hair, while appearing dark in the shadowy room full of books, now lit up with blondish highlights. A few freckles dusted the skin across his cheeks, and Luck wanted to reach out and play connect the dots in order to find the shapes hidden within the gorgeous man's face. However, he had to look down to collect his thoughts. It had been awhile since someone had inspired such vivid desires from him, but he couldn't let that cloud his judgment right now. The man, Dean, however attractive he was, was the enemy. At some point in the near future, Luck would probably have to approve the order to kill him.

The four men had moved back into the storage area, a much more spacious room than one would have guessed from looking at the building from the outside. It was the perfect neutral location for a meeting such as this one. Sam and Dean, the false FBI agents, occupied the seats on one side of the table, while Firo sat across from them. Luck stood, not having taken his seat yet, arms crossed and examining the man in front of him again. He knew everyone in the room was waiting for him to speak. However, he didn't want to break the spell of silence just yet.

Apparently Dean did, however. "Listen, Luck," he said the name as if it was the most ridiculous sounding thing he had ever heard. "We need answers. And we want you to be straight with us. We were pretty straight with you already, alright? We're not Feds, we're not going to arrest anyone. We're just trying to keep innocent people safe, and I'm sure you can appreciate that." He grinned, but the sentiment didn't touch his eyes, which remained hard and determined. Luck enjoyed the look in those eyes more than he probably should have.

"Yes, you have been partially straight with us," Luck said, putting his hands on the back of the empty chair and leaning forward slightly. "But, you still haven't told us what you're doing here and why? I know you've been to the Daily Days, looked into the myth of the Rail Tracer, and had some sort of altercation with my brother. Listen, I would like to be civil with you, but I can't do that if you aren't going to be completely honest with me."

"He's right," Firo said, tilting his head to the side in a manner he must have thought looked intimidating, but only accentuated his boyish features. His trusty green fedora sat on the table in front of him, letting everyone see the mop of blonde hair on top of his head. Luck couldn't help but smile at him, before turning serious again. "I don't really want involved in this at all, but you wandered into my Family's territory so I have to ensure that it doesn't happen again."

"Listen, we never came her to get involved in…this," Sam said. He was taller with shaggy hair that reminded Luck very much of a puppy. He long arms were folded in front of him on the table, his brown eyes wide. This boy could probably make people melt to his whims with just a look. Luck wasn't so easy though. "We're just here because we think that something…non-human is responsible for the deaths on the train a few days ago."

"Yeah, and we're more than a little certain that your brother that you speak so fondly of is the one we're looking for," Dean said, speaking again. When Luck turned his eyes to him, the man shifted uncomfortably, then swallowed thickly.

"And how could you possibly be so certain about this?" Luck asked, finally sitting down in front of the green eyed man, and gazed at him with a small smirk on his face. "Are you psychic?"

"No," Dean said, taking a deep breath. "He confessed to us. After you know, trying to kill us in our sleep."

Luck's smirk slowly fell from his face as he leaned back and glanced over at Firo who was just as surprised. Claire had failed to mention that he had told these two all the gruesome details. He sighed, annoyed. "Well, that's really no matter," he said, crossing his arms again. "My brother's actions were justified. And besides, he's human so I don't know why you two even care. Why are you looking for some ghostly murderer anyway?"

"We never said it was a ghost," Dean said. "But the murders aboard that train were not committed by an ordinary human being. I saw the bodies. They were mutilated so bad that some could not be identified as once being humans themselves. You still wanna stand by your dear brother's actions?"

"Yes," Luck said easily. His smirk returned. "You don't know me, Mr. Winchester, and you certainly don't know the things I've done in my many, many years as Don of the Gandor Family." He tilted his head, glancing between the two men for a moment, wondering if he should say the words that danced on his lips. Finally, he gave in and whispered, "Besides, I never said Claire was an _ordinary_ human."

Firo looked at him surprised for a moment, then reached over grabbing his arm, pulling him down so he could whisper in his ear. "What are you crazy…? We can't actually tell them the truth!"

"Why not?" Luck asked, speaking in his normal voice as he pulled away. "It's not like they're Feds, and I doubt they pose any real threat to us." He slowly turned to gaze at Dean again, who stared at him anxiously. "Besides, if they stay around long enough and keep sticking their noses where they don't belong, they'll either find out or we'll kill them first. Which one do you want it to be, Firo?"

"Honestly, I'd rather just call Claire in here and have him get it over with right now," the younger man said, frowning.

"Wait a minute," Sam said, gaining Luck's attention. "What exactly are you talking about…? Are you and Claire…the same…?"

"Yes," the Mafioso said, smirking. "Me. Claire. Even little Firo here. We're all the same."

"I knew it," Dean muttered. He suddenly stood, going for a weapon. Even noticing this, Luck wasn't quick enough to react before he had the barrel of a gun pointed at his head. He stared at it before looking up at the owner, a trace of annoyance on his features.

"I thought we agreed that weapons weren't allowed…?"

"Yeah, well I've never been one for rules," Dean scowled at him, clicking the safety off. "I'm going to wipe you and your scum of a race off the planet and make sure none of you can ever hurt an innocent person again."

"Good luck with that," Luck muttered sarcastically before the gun was fired, bullet ripping through his skull coming out the other side to bury in the floor. He watched the beautiful green eyed man turn to point the gun at Firo as well as Luck fell out of his seat, red blood exploding around him. Then the world went black, if only for a moment.

* * *

Claire heard the crackle of voices over the headset he'd been given by Luck for the express purpose of spying on this little sit down. Their petty arguments drifted in one ear and out the other. Nothing could possibly be more boring than this. However, he did understand his brother's frustration. After all, he had promised two dead "FBI agents" and had instead given him two that were angry and very much alive. Still, Claire knew everything would work out for him as it always did. After all, he was a god.

He was, however, a little surprised when he heard two gunshots. According the Luck, he hadn't planned to kill the two, so that could only mean that one of them had snuck a gun in. It was probably the older one: Dean. He seemed just like the type to mess everything up by being overzealous. By any means, this signaled the end of any peace talks and that Claire had to get in there and stop them from leaving just yet.

This put him in a slightly better mood, and he silently opened the window and dropped down into the room. He landed silently and rolled behind a box, peering out over the top at the two men who were now standing over the bodies of Firo and Luck. Sure enough, Dean was holding the smoking gun in his hand. Quietly, Claire leaped over the box and ran at them. Sam turned just in time to see the sole of Claire's shoe as he jumped up and roundhouse kicked him in the face. The tall man went flying, leaving only Dean, Claire, and the gun as players on the field in this battle.

The assassin narrowed his eyes when he saw Dean's furious expression, the gun now raised to point directly at him. He fired two shots which Claire easily dodged, circling around the bulkier man and sweeping his legs out from under him. The gun fell from his grip and Claire batted it away from his foot. It might have been an easier choice, but honestly, guns just weren't very much fun. Too quick and not messy enough.

"If you hurt my brother again I swear I'll kill you, you son of bitch!" Dean shouted as he struggled up to his feet. He threw a careless punch which the ex-circus star easily avoided. "Come on, stand like a man and fight me!"

"Alright, if you want me to," Claire said with a grin. His eyes glinted manically as he waited for Dean to attack again. Once the larger man was a couple inches away, Claire flipped backwards, toes of his boots connecting under Dean's chin and flipping him back the other direction. The assassin landed perfectly on his feet, in a crouch, while Dean tumbled to the ground, head first. When he finally sat up, blood was rushing down from his hairline and into his eyes.

Claire straightened up, hearing Sam stand up from where he'd been knocked earlier. His heavy footfalls announced exactly where he was at every second of his rush toward the acrobatic fighter. However, just as he was about to turn and intercept his attack, the sound of knives unsheathing and a gasp of pain interrupted the planned attack. Claire turned to see Chane standing, blood dripping down her knife and Sam backing away from her, large gash across his upper arm. A warning cut. Well, people always did say that the best relationships are formed when the other person always watches your back. Or was that assassin partnerships? It didn't really matter, because Claire and Chane were both.

Finally, from across the room, the sound of a scraping chair announced Luck's awakening. He stood up, scowl on his face as he straightened his tousled hair back to perfection. By his standards anyway. Firo also stood, crossing his arms and looking positively annoyed. Then again, it was pretty annoying to be shot through the skull. Or at least Claire could assume; it had never actually happened to him.

"Claire, stop playing around with your wife and get these two tied up," Luck said, glancing over as Dean struggled to his feet, obviously dazed by the last attack. Still, he managed to spot Luck and go for the gun that was no longer tucked into his jeans. Then he just stared, confused, blinking his big dopey eyes. Maybe he'd landed harder on his head than Claire had first thought. Sam backed up, watching everyone warily, eyes falling on Luck and Firo with profound disbelief before he shook it away with some effort. He adapted fast, Claire could tell. An amazing asset to have when fighting.

Claire couldn't help but admire these two. The Winchester's, if he'd heard correctly over the headset. Over the past century he'd fought all kinds of people. Some more of a challenge than others. And while they weren't the hardest he'd had to fight, they were certainly two of the most fun. Mainly because they seemed to care about each other so much. It was interesting to see how these two obviously trained fighters reacted so stupidly when they thought the other was hurt.

Claire motioned to Chane to take care of Dean and he ran over, kicking Sam in the stomach in order to drag him back over to the chair where he belonged. Forcing him to sit down, Claire looked over as Chane placed the tip of her knife under Dean's chin and led him over to his seat. He smiled a bit, thinking of the fact that his wife was such a complete badass in a fight, much like himself. Firo went a retrieved some rope and threw it to Claire, which made him snap out of his loving gaze. He tied up the two men, tight enough that he was sure they couldn't get out of it, then jumped up on the table. He took Chane's hand and pulled her over to him before letting her go, smirking playing across his face.

"You didn't have to do that, you know. I could have handled myself. You really don't have to follow me whenever I have an assignment."

She responded by burying on of her knives in the table about an inch from his hand, making him shrug. She threw this little temper tantrums a lot, more and more recently, but he knew that she would never actually hurt him. As he would never in his life consider hurting her.

"Claire, quit flirting focus," Luck snapped at him, all traces of his previous joviality and good mood vanished entirely. "I want answers out of these two and I want them now!"

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